Despite Everything and Perhaps Because Of It- Johnlock Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: In which John and Greg get drunk and accidentally kiss, and end up with the men they love as a result. Pretty much pure fluff, spawned by a conversation about how Mystrade needs more love. I OWN NOTHING.


"I'm going to the pub! Do _not_ text me." John practically growled the words as he pulled on his jacket, irritation making the movements sharp and nearly uncoordinated. Fortunately, this particular jacket had taken worse—it had survived Sherlock for the past couple of months, after all—and held up well. If it could handle a few more weeks, it probably deserved to be framed after it met its end.

As usual, Sherlock ignored his words, undoubtedly lost in his mind palace or wherever it was he went. Sighing in frustration and hurt, though he would die before he admitted to the latter emotion, John habitually locked the door before heading downstairs and into the night. The moment he was gone, something like pain flashed in the consulting detective's eyes, and he got to his feet, watching the army doctor make his way down the street, coat buttoned up against the chill of the autumn wind.

So much of who John was shown obviously in his countenance in that moment, Sherlock thought wistfully, with more sentiment than anyone would have thought him capable of. He was sturdy and reliable and powerful, albeit not overly obviously so. Even more fascinating were the things you couldn't make out from just a glance. Those strong hands were capable of taking life and saving it with equal skill, and that typical optimism he wore like a second skin could melt away to dark determination in the blink of an eye. John Watson looked ordinary, but he'd come to realize over the years that he was anything but.

Since Sherlock's return, things between them had been similar to the way they'd been before, but for one major difference: when John felt Sherlock had done something too risky, he reacted badly. At the beginning, his reactions had been everything from punching walls to shouting. Not sure at all what to do to soothe him, the genius had done nothing, but that had obviously been the wrong answer. It hadn't gotten better as time went on, only worse. Now, when he was upset, he simply left, going out to spend time with Lestrade. And he wouldn't answer his phone, no matter how many times Sherlock texted him and begged him, in his own way, to come home.

Everything was the same, but nothing was the same. It had taken two years away for Sherlock to realize why John had been the axis on which his world had spun: he was in love. It wasn't the kind of love that could be expressed by a greeting card, but that didn't make it any less genuine, or terrifying. For a man who'd never loved anyone, and had suspected that it wasn't even possible for him to feel that way at all, he'd been shocked to discover those feelings.

Still, there was one obvious roadblock. John was adamant that he was straight, and it didn't take a genius to understand that that meant that his advances wouldn't be welcomed. No matter how many times John said he was brilliant or amazing, that didn't change the fact that Sherlock was not, and would never be, a woman. He couldn't be anything other than what he was, and it would never be enough.

At this point, he was wondering if John might even regret their friendship. Every time he left like this, Sherlock's heart broke a little bit more, and he always wondered if this would be the night that John would decide he didn't need the hassle, didn't need _him_ anymore. And he would curl himself into a ball on the sofa or play violin until dawn, before collapsing into sleep, utterly spent by the churning chaos of emotion he always experienced on these nights.

He wondered when Mycroft would show up. As far as he knew, his brother was experiencing his own heartbreak, suffocating in his silent adoration for a remarkably similar man to his John. Lestrade, the DI who had helped Sherlock get clean, had more than just Mycroft's respect. The man also held his heart, but both Holmes brothers recognized the hopelessness of their situations. So when these nights came around, and the men they loved went out, unaware of the fact that they were loved, Mycroft came over, both to keep Sherlock company and so that he wouldn't be alone.

Right on cue, his older brother walked through the door. He didn't bother with a greeting, as anything he had to say was both redundant and unnecessary. It was all in his eyes, which rarely showed anything but carefully crafted ice, and Sherlock nodded in recognition. They sighed simultaneously as Sherlock picked up his violin, playing the melody he could practically read on his older brother's face.

On nights like these, they didn't bother with sniping comments, reflecting the broken relationship between them. In fact, they'd actually bonded over their mutual loneliness, and as Sherlock played, Mycroft's fingers tapped on the arm of his chair, absently playing the piano notes that would correspond with the song his brother was weaving in the air around them. Neither of them needed a piano in the room to hear the sound, and they let it linger around them, an echo of the things they didn't need to voice for their misery to be understood.

"I seriously can't believe… the nerve of that git! Like I weren't even there. Am I so invisible to him?" John was practically whining the words, several beers in, and Greg realized, through the haze of alcohol, that it was probably time for both of them to get home. These nights always dissolved into mourning for the loves that would never be theirs, because what they would never admit to the world, they admitted freely to each other.

"Least ye get to see yers e'ry day. Bloody Holmeses. I never see 'im, John. Never… Least Sher… Sher… hell, least yers remembers ye occasionally." Not quite able to articulate Sherlock's name, Lestrade gave it a valiant try before giving up. Definitely time to go, then. Soon they'd be crying on each other's shoulders like distraught teenage girls. They were bloody pathetic, the pair of them, lusting after two men who were probably asexual.

"Up ye come, then, John. Homeward for the pair o' us." Greg practically had to drag John off his stool, tossing money on the bar as they leaned on one another, making their way back to Baker Street. Greg was barely better off than John, tonight—the case he'd been working had been hard, and on top of that, it had been taken off his hands by Mycroft's assistant—but knew that if he didn't get John home, Sherlock would have his head.

The Holmes brothers might well have been born without hearts, as was rumored, but they were notoriously possessive of the things that belonged to them. Greg just wished he could belong to Mycroft, even in the limited capacity in which John belonged to Sherlock. Something had to be better than nothing at all, which was what he had.

John had one arm slung around Greg's hip for balance as the two of them made their way back to Baker Street, where John spent a long two minutes fumbling with his keys before letting out an exclamation of happiness when he succeeded in getting the key in the lock and getting the door open. They stumbled up the stairs together, but when they reached the top, some awkward change in Greg's equilibrium had him tripping, pitching forward, and landing on John, who had just enough intelligence left to have turned around when Greg made a surprised noise, so that he caught him.

Somehow, thanks to gravity and their height differences, their mouths ended up pressed together, and they were just realizing that when the door opened to reveal the Holmes brothers, who were completely stunned at the sight.

It wasn't a proper kiss, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock knew that as Greg untangled himself, chuckling a little at his clumsiness and waving drunkenly to John before declaring him "in good hands" and making his way back downstairs, laughing at himself when he had to catch the railing to keep himself from pitching forward twice. He hadn't even noticed Mycroft, for which the politician could only be grateful, because he only just finished picking his jaw up off the floor when the cop reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I think I had better offer the Detective Inspector a ride home before he ends up hurting himself." Mycroft murmured to his brother, taking off without a goodbye. Normally, he'd have stayed to see if Sherlock was okay, but seeing Greg kissing John had thrown him off completely, and he couldn't see anything but that drunken but obviously enthusiastic kiss—he'd practically been draped over John, after all—replaying in his head.

Moving surprisingly nimbly down the stairs for a man who claimed to hate legwork of any kind, Mycroft caught Lestrade only feet from the doorway, swaying a little more than normal. He caught the cop's arm to steady him, and they ended up face to face, eyes wide as they stared at each other.

"Allow me to give you a ride home, Detective Inspector. You seem to be having difficulty walking tonight." Mycroft didn't know where he found words, his mouth suddenly dry at the other man's proximity, but his heart leapt almost uncomfortably into his throat when Greg nodded, practically sagging against him.

Despite having done desk work for the past several years, Mycroft was still in excellent physical shape, regardless of what Sherlock might have said, and he took most of Greg's weight, practically dragging him to his car. The driver helped him maneuver the drunken DI into the backseat with him, where the other man almost immediately collapsed, lying down in his lap and closing his eyes and letting out a sigh.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to regain his composure. He knew it was wrong to be aroused by the other man's closeness, but it still took him a few beats longer than normal to get himself under control.

"Where to, sir?" His driver, used to having all sorts of people in his back seat due to Mycroft's line of work, didn't so much as raise his eyebrow as he started the engine. Mycroft wasn't sure what possessed him, when he knew Greg's address, but he figured that if it came up later, he could always deny that fact.

"Home, Charles." Relaxing back against the comfortable leather seat, Mycroft got as comfortable as he could with Gregory's head in his lap, the occasional small snoring noise reaching his ears as he lay his head back and focused on breathing evenly. This was both heaven and hell, being so close to this man, both in spite of an because of the fact that he wouldn't remember it in the morning. If by some miracle he did, he would probably regret it, but Mycroft couldn't bring himself to regret it as he reached down and stroked a hand through Greg's thick silver hair, delighting in the sensation of those soft strands.

When they reached his flat, Mycroft roused Greg and got him inside with Charles's help, dismissing his driver only once they were inside. From there, he practically dragged Greg to a guestroom, but once he was down on the bed, he reached out and grab Mycroft's wrist, his grip surprisingly strong considering his condition.

"Stay." The word was less of a command and more of a request, but there was sorrow in Greg's voice. Mycroft felt instant sympathy, despite the fact that this was likely to make the next morning all the more painful for him. He just hoped Greg didn't accuse him of taking advantage of the situation as he kicked off his shoes, draped the blankets over the other man gently, and then lay down on top of them as far away as possible.

After his divorce, Mycroft realized, Greg probably hated sleeping alone. He was pleased that he could offer some small comfort to the man, even if doing so would come back to bite him in the arse in a few short hours.

"I'm here, Gregory. Sleep now." Unable to resist once again, Mycroft carded his fingers through Greg's hair, soothing him to sleep. The older man moved closer and closer to him until his head was practically in his lap again, and though Mycroft worried for just a moment about the wrinkles it would put in his suit, he couldn't bring himself to care all that much, savoring the moment of closeness.

He sat with his back against the headboard all night long, eyes occasionally drifting close though his hand raked absently through that hair almost all night, the moonlight filtering through the window the only witness to the softness in Mycroft's eyes as he looked down at this man who, despite the impossibility of it all, he was in love with.

Sherlock stared in stunned silence at John, who was giggling a little despite, or perhaps because of, the look on the genius's face. He shook his repeatedly, trying to get the image of John kissing Lestrade, _kissing another man_, out of his head, but he couldn't seem to manage it. _Was John attracted to Greg? Was he into men? Had Sherlock missed his chance?_ Questions flew rapidly through his mind, but when he opened his mouth to ask them, he found he couldn't speak.

"Hey, Sh'lock." Growing sad again now that he was alone with Sherlock once more, but no longer angry with the younger man, John pushed off the wall, only to realize he wasn't quite as steady on his feet as he'd imagined. He discovered this by tripping over his own feet and face planting against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock grunted and instantly brought his arms up to catch John, He was wiry but strong, and managed to keep them both from tumbling to the floor, though he did stumble back a step or two from the effort.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock choked the words out, torn between pleasure and pain at his conductor of light's proximity. _Was John open to all advances when drunk? Would it be taking advantage if Sherlock were to kiss him now? Would it be horrible of him if he took the other man to bed?_ Knowing that the direction of his thoughts was more than a bit not good, as John would have said, Sherlock waited for his answer.

"Sad." Was the answer, and although it wasn't terribly descriptive, there was something about the answer that suggested Sherlock might be able to get a proper answer if he were to ask him to explain. Not willing to pass up the chance, he helped John walk to his own room, since there was no way they were attempting a set of stairs with John slumped against him like a ragdoll, and decided to give it a shot. Chances like this didn't often come along, after all.

"Why?"

"You don't love me." This answer was even more forlorn, and John sighed after the slurred sentence, not even noticing the way Sherlock stiffened, eyes going wide as he tried to process the implications of those words. There was only possible reason he could think of that John would be sad about Sherlock not loving him, and it was simple enough that even Anderson could have deduced it. But at the same time, the thought of John loving him seemed so impossible… the hypothesis obviously needed tested.

"And when have I said that?" Sitting John down on the bed, Sherlock knelt and began to work on his shoes, stilling once again when those capable hands began to card through his hair, steady despite the alcohol he'd obviously consumed. Sherlock had to resist the urge to purr, but it disappeared abruptly with John's next answer.

"'S obvious. You don't like sennament." A tear traveled down John's cheek, and he realized how tired he felt. He felt his eyes closing as Sherlock finished with his shoes, helping him to lay back on the bed. He felt too warm, and was grateful that the genius didn't bother with blankets. He was too out of it to care what he was admitting, much less that he was admitting it _to Sherlock_.

Sherlock had only about five percent of his attention on his actions, spending the rest of his energy unraveling the implications of John's matter-of-fact, if garbled, statement. "Sennament," he took to mean "sentiment," and it was true that Sherlock typically abhorred sentiment, because of the ways it corrupted and broke people. However, he'd fallen prey to it himself, now, and knew better than to hope that it might go away any time soon. He was well and truly sunk, and if he could believe John's drunken declarations, the other man felt the same way.

"While I am not a fan of sentiment, you are wrong in assuming I don't feel that way for you, John." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, and John had to strain to make out what was being said. The words made him smile shakily, lying back on the bed.

"Wish this was for real." He whispered, already drifting asleep as Sherlock watched. His mind was spinning furiously, trying to cope with the realizations he'd come to that night. Unwilling to leave John alone in case he needed anything, Sherlock took a seat in his chair and steepled his hands in his thinking position, knowing that it would probably take him several hours to fully absorb what had happened, and figure out what he should do about it.

When Greg awoke, his head was spinning and his mouth was full of cotton, though his pillow was more comfortable than usual… and was moving.

Jolting straight up, and promptly wincing when his head complained and his stomach rebelled all at once, he bent over the edge of the bed to throw up, only to find a bucket shoved hastily into his hands. He took it and vomited repeatedly until finally, he was done. He moaned a little, closing his eyes as he tried to remember the events of the night before.

Getting completely pissed was not something he often indulged in, but he'd needed to escape his thoughts, and had seized on the only sure way to do that when John had invited him out for a night at the pub, needing the escape as well. He only hoped he hadn't embarrassed himself too badly, and that Sherlock would forgive him for having crashed. Although why he was on a bed, instead of the couch or the floor, and why Sherlock would be considerate enough to offer him a bucket, he couldn't say… unless it wasn't Sherlock.

Opening his eyes again and groaning at the burst of light that made him want to bury his head in the pillows, Greg forced himself to turn and look toward the man who'd prevented him from puking on the carpet. His gaze trailed from long, graceful fingers, to the cool black sleeve of a silk dress shirt, and finally lit on the face of the man he'd been trying to drown himself in alcohol to forget.

Greg didn't even have it in him to curse in surprise and embarrassment. He could only stare as Mycroft watched him curiously, his expression strangely open for once.

"Are you finished, then?" His voice was completely unperturbed, as though strange men got sick off the side of his bed every day, and it was only then that Greg realized he was stretched across the other man's lap.

"I… yes." Wincing when he moved too fast in an effort to quit wrinkling Mycroft's suit and the room spun a little again, Greg collapsed again on the other side of the bed, and Mycroft let out a breath at the bittersweetness of his current situation. He was in bed with Gregory, which was more than he'd ever hoped for, but the man was looking at him as if he was a stranger or alien or something, and that hurt. Still, he'd expected this.

Forcing nonchalance, Mycroft slipped out of bed and carried the bucket very carefully to the bathroom, emptying the contents into the toilet before flushing them away. He washed his hands carefully twice before bringing the bucket back, just in case the DI got sick again. He didn't look green anymore, but there was a pink blush staining his cheeks which the politician found to be adorable, though he had the sense not to say so out loud. Maybe if he didn't draw the oddness of the situation to Greg's attention, he could convince the man to stay for breakfast, or maybe even longer.

He so rarely found an excuse to interact with Gregory that he felt he had to take the chance, despite the risk.

"Feeling a little better, then?" Mycroft tried for casual, but even he could hear the slight strain in his voice, and he cursed himself for it even as he watched Greg go blank before scrambling for words.

"I… I'm sorry. I don't… Did we sleep together last night?" The cop winced at his words the second they were out, but his own reaction was mild compared to Mycroft's. The other man physically winced, eyes reflecting something like pain for a moment before he seemed to go inside himself, ice spreading over those eyes until it seemed like everything human about him was gone. Except… _why would he be in pain?_

"I can assure you, Detective Inspector, I did not take advantage of you. I do not sleep with those who are incapable of offering consent." Mycroft was cursing himself inwardly for thinking this man would ever want to be around him when he was sober, and turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets as he tried to find his normal calm. It simply wasn't there. Spending the night with Greg, no matter how innocent the circumstances, had made him vulnerable, and seeing the man's obvious disdain for the idea of being with him in any way was just too much.

"I didn't mean… I'm sorry, Mycroft." Greg wasn't sure what to say, but he could see that he'd hurt the other man in some way, and wanted to fix it. "I didn't mean that you would have taken advantage. I only thought that I might have… thrown myself at you." His own pride was worthless to him in the face of Mycroft's pain, and Greg rose to his feet very carefully, walking over to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. The British Government froze under his touch for a moment before spinning around, a hint of confusion making its way through his shields.

"Why would you do something like that?" Mycroft asked, desperate for the answer.

"Because I… oh, hell." Deciding that action speaks louder than words, and that he was horrible at articulating his feelings anyway, Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft's for a long moment, keeping his mouth closed so as to not repulse the other man with his breath.

The kiss might have lasted a second or an eternity, but when Greg released him, Mycroft simply stood there, eyes wide open, trying to put a coherent thought together. The second he did, he grabbed the other man and pulled him in, snogging him right back. Now it was Greg's turn to be stunned, jerking away to stare at the politician.

"What was that?" He asked, his voice rough.

"I thought… You kissed me first." Mycroft sounded lost, having briefly grasped his dream only to realize that it was probably gone again, all in a handful of seconds.

"Yeah. You kissed me back."

"…Yes." Mycroft said slowly. "I suppose I did."

"Why?" Greg asked, holding his breath for the answer.

"I… Well. There is a possibility that I might be in love with you." Mycroft flinched the second the words left his mouth, knowing that any chance he'd had at being smooth had just flown out the window and landed with a splat on the cold hard ground. Greg, however, startled him by laughing, the sound surprisingly rich. Mycroft wondered if he'd ever heard him laugh before, and was grateful for the sound, even if it was at his expense.

"Is it okay if I might just love you back?" Greg asked, relief making him giddy, causing him to laugh harder than he'd laughed in years. A surprised but pleased smile spread over Mycroft's face before he nodded, blushing slightly.

"Would you like to stay for breakfast?" He asked shyly, and Greg grinned at him, reaching out to tangle their fingers together.

"I would love to. And if you'll direct me toward a toothbrush, I would also very much love to pick that kiss up where it left off."

John had a bit more practice holding his liquor, and Sherlock had a bit more practice dealing with these sorts of nights, although he normally put the shorter man to bed on the couch. When John woke up, there was a glass and some headache medicine sitting on the nightstand, which he quickly swallowed down. Then he lay back for a few moments, hoping to let the medication do its work before going anywhere.

As he stared at the ceiling, he became aware of the fact that something was not quite right about his room. His hand clenched in the sheet at that realization, and when the silk bunched beneath his hand, he froze. This was not his room.

Turning his head slowly, he caught sight of Sherlock, watching him from the chair, eyes on him while his brain was a million miles away, probably. But when John moved to sit up, Sherlock's eyes tracked the movement, and he realized that the genius wasn't as removed as normal.

"I, um… thanks for giving up your bed. You didn't have to. I'd have crashed on the couch." John was blushing a little, hoping it wasn't painfully obvious that he was hoping the earth would simply open up and swallow him whole.

Sherlock tilted his head, studying John almost as if he were a particularly interesting experiment. There was a gleam in his eyes, however, that spoke of something more complicated going on in that huge brain.

"What do you remember of last night, John?" Sherlock's rumbling baritone was lower than normal, and his voice was contemplative instead of abrupt, making the doctor narrow his eyes as he thought back. Everything was blurry, but his memory was a little better than Greg's, and he remembered the accidental kiss and then the words he'd spoken afterward.

"Oh God." He said, realizing that he must have spoken out loud during the dream. He was terrified now, waiting for Sherlock to throw him out of his room, or out of the flat for good, when the genius's lips twitched upward with a sad smile that was reflected in his eyes.

"Is the idea of me loving you really so horrible to consider, John? You didn't seem to think so last night." Sherlock's words were quiet, but they hit John with the impact of a bullet, and he blinked at the consulting detective, barely believing his ears.

"I… what?" He asked, mind struggling to process what was being said. Sherlock frowned, watching John carefully.

"Last night, you expressed a desire for me to love you. Now you're behaving as if the idea is abhorrent to you. I had thought last night that you perhaps returned the sentiment, as I could think of no other reason that you would mourn a lack of love, no matter how ill-founded your assumption, than that you returned my affection. Now I am unsure what to think."

"You mean that that conversation was real?" John could barely breathe now, hope bubbling up almost painfully inside him. Sherlock nodded, ocean eyes full of confusion, before John slowly got to his feet, prompting the consulting detective to do the same, before crossing the room so they were standing right in front of each other.

"Sherlock, does that mean that you do actually… love me?" He needed the other man to spell it out for him. John was well aware that he'd had this dream before, and was pinching himself even as he waited, tense with anticipation.

"Yes. But I thought you were straight." Sherlock's expression cleared suddenly, and John knew he'd come to the wrong conclusion instantly. "Aah. You imagined that that was my reason for wanting to keep you around and chasing off the girl who come here. You are disappointed that you thought you were wrong, because that would mean that you—" John was sure that Sherlock had had a very convoluted theory figured out, but he destroyed it as he crashed their mouths together, tangling his fingers in that dark, curly hair he'd so often admired so he could hold the taller man in place.

Sherlock gasped into the kiss, and John took instant advantage, slipping inside and stroking Sherlock's tongue with his own, earning a low moan that shot straight southward.

"Despite everything, and perhaps because of it, I am in love with you too, Sherlock. So forget whatever it was you were trying to say and don't stop snogging me." John's invitation was all the younger man needed, and he kissed back in earnest, wrapping his arms around John and giving in to the kiss.

The four men sat down together at Angelo's, looking like they'd all come from different worlds entirely. The tallest was dressed in his beat-up, trademark Belstaff and scarf, a black suit beneath. The ginger haired man wore a tailored grey suit and carried an umbrella, despite the rare sunshine that had graced London that day. At his side was a man in a dress shirt and jeans, silver hair gleaming in the lights. Finally, the shortest man of the group, in jeans and a jumper, took his own seat and removed his partner's scarf with an affectionate smile before pulling him in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I think that was a success. Anderson didn't even take a swing at Sherlock today." In a good mood because work was going well and he and Mycroft had finally moved in together, Greg chuckled at the memory of the last few minutes of the case. Despite the dark nature of his work, he really loved it.

"Yes, well, he is a little afraid to do that, considering last time John threatened to remove some of his body parts and ship them to… where was it again, John?" Sherlock said dryly, turning to his partner of a year now to illuminate the group. John gave him a knowing smile, taking his hand under the table because of the sweet gesture. Sherlock had taken to treating John like this, letting him feel useful and necessary, when it had occurred to him that nobody like a know-it-all. John couldn't really care less if Sherlock did remember absolutely everything, but he loved that he thought of him often enough to do things like that.

"Siberia, I think. Though I might have volunteered Mycroft's help for that. It helps to have the British Government as my brother-in-law." He and Sherlock had tied the knot just a couple of months after they'd first gotten together, and John was expecting a similar announcement from the men across from them soon. Mycroft sighed, gearing up for the old argument.

"I've told you before John, I merely occupy a minor position." Even Greg snorted at this, and Mycroft glared half-heartedly at his partner. Even if their accusations were true, and he was more than a minor official, that didn't mean he could go around bragging about it. He hadn't basically gotten control of the nation by running his mouth off.

"Yes, love, we know." Greg smiled at the other man's pout, deciding that now was the perfect time. Sliding his chair back, he got down on one knee, watching Mycroft's eyes widen almost comically.

"Since you are a man, and not a country, there are technically no rules against you getting married. So will you marry me?" Greg produced a ring box from his pocket an opened it, and for a moment, Mycroft stared at him, stunned. Then he smiled, and in a rare show of public affection leaned down and snogged his DI quite thoroughly, earning cheers from most of the other patrons. Even Sherlock cracked a small smile, and John was outright grinning ear to ear.

"Yes." Mycroft said when they finally parted, repeating himself several times as the ring, a simple platinum band, replaced the gold band he'd used for so long as another shield. It seemed all his shields were coming down tonight, because there was no reserve in his eyes as he stared at the man he loved more than anything else in the world.

"As touching as this moment is, I believe everyone is done with their meals. I suppose everyone will want desert. Cake, Mycroft?" Sherlock's wry tone interrupted their moment, but when Mycroft and Greg turned around to scold him for the joke, he was smiling softly at them, with Angelo hovering at his elbow, holding a cake that bore the word "Congratulations" in elegant script on the top. Mycroft felt a huge surge of affection for his brother at that moment and actually got up and hugged him, startling everyone at the table, including Sherlock, who somehow hadn't seen it coming.

"Thank you, brother." He said, pleased to have finally mended what was broken between them, if the evidence in front of him was anything to go by. Sherlock blushed as he sat back down, mumbling something under his breath, and Greg and John grinned at their partners, and then one another, happy that despite everything, and perhaps because of it, they'd all finally found their way home.

This one is for jaimi-or-jaemi, with whom I had a conversation about how much more Mystrade we'd love to see. Thanks for the lovely conversation, and the inspiration that resulted. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this piece.


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